


Patience, Brother

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Disparity, Edging, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Control, PWP, Pearl Necklace, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never orchestrate incidents like these; it would be too much, Sherlock supposes. Too much like admitting that it actually happens, outside the nursery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patience, Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Терпение, брат](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135135) by [n1a1u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n1a1u/pseuds/n1a1u)



> So many kinks, so little time! Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=114469015#t114469015) prompt on the meme. The video is so very very NSFW (and so very delicious).

They don’t talk about it.

-

Mycroft is in the nursery. He’s standing at the window, a familiar silhouette even without the ubiquitous umbrella, and he is unmoving, deep in thought.

Sherlock steps up behind him, follows his gaze to their mother where she is reclining in the garden. The day is hot; she’s dozing deep in the shade of a horse chestnut.

They never orchestrate incidents like these; it would be too much, Sherlock supposes. Too much like admitting that it actually happens, outside the nursery. Still, when he’s home from school and Mycroft visits from uni, he tends to stray there a couple of times a day. Just to check, until there’s a serendipitous moment when they coincide in their wanderings, and Sherlock’s stomach drops in anticipation and he sees the pulse skip at Mycroft’s throat.

Mycroft turns, finally, eyes softening as they dart over his face, skipping from his lips (lingering) to his eyes to his throat and down over the crisp lines of his shirt (his eyes darken). Sherlock uses the moment to drink in the wicked little curve of his lovely mouth.

“Lock the door then, little brother.”

He uses everything to his advantage, _always_. Sherlock has never been able to outmanoeuvre him and has oft resented and sometimes hated him for it. Now, the words make his eyes flutter and his breath punch out. _Little brother_. 

_Mycroft, you are shameless_.

When he turns back, Mycroft is on the edge of the bed, loosening his tie. Sitting there on the baby blue bedspread, he already looks wanton. It’s in his languid movements, the sultry lowering of his eyelids, the scrape of tooth over his lower lip. Half-calculated, half-genuine, as with all his dealings with Sherlock. He spreads his legs slowly, obscenely, crooks his finger. For once in his life, Sherlock obeys without question and slides onto the bed, back pressed to Mycroft’s chest.

Sitting in the cradle of his brother’s legs, Sherlock lets his head fall back against his shoulder, baring his neck. Mycroft turns, and they are caught in the instant before, that beautiful moment of anticipation, breath ghosting across their lips. It’s almost a shame to break it, but with a trembling sigh Mycroft darts his tongue out over Sherlock’s lower lip and Sherlock almost sobs with it; _God_ he is ridiculously aroused and they are both still dressed, haven’t even properly kissed. He gives in to the urge to squirm a little in the confines of his perfectly pressed trousers, feels the hot line of Mycroft’s cock pressing against his back for a second before his brother’s hands are on his hips with a steely grip. 

“Patience, brother,” he breathes into Sherlock’s mouth, hands coming up to expertly pop open the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock sighs and relaxes back against him, arching into the feel of his brother’s hands against his chest. He toes his shoes off while Mycroft is unbuttoning his trousers, until at last he’s completely nude, revelling in the scratch of Mycroft’s suit against his spine.

Mycroft wastes no time, sliding his long fingers around over Sherlock’s ribs to circle his nipples. He plays with them a little, just enough to make Sherlock’s breath come panting, before sliding his hands down to draw along the underside of his cock. _God,_ his hands. Even his brother’s pretty mouth is no match for his elegant hands, the way they expertly tease at him. Mycroft hardly has to touch him at all before he’s completely hard and already so turned on he can’t think properly and fuck, isn’t that lovely.

Mycroft’s slicked his hands with something, and the slide has Sherlock shuddering against him. He brings his own hands up to play with his nipples again, cock jerking in Mycroft’s grip. 

“Not long,” he breathes, “slowly.”

“Don’t worry, little brother,” Mycroft twists his hand deliciously, “I can always tell.”

Sherlock takes long, steadying breaths. Almost, almost—

“ _Fuck_ , stop--“ he tenses all of his muscles, but Mycroft has already moved his hands to draw little circles on Sherlock’s thighs. They both watch as Sherlock’s cock twitches, slit dilating slightly, and a little bit of fluid drips slowly over his glans.

“Oh,” his hips lift, neck dropping back onto Mycroft’s shoulder, and he can’t hold in a desperate whine as his brother’s hands ever so gently move back to his cock, keeping him _just there_ but no more, and oh _fuck_ Mycroft is playing him like an instrument. Long fingers softly encircle the head of his cock again, and Mycroft jerks him achingly slowly. He feels himself begin to crest again and before he’s even said anything Mycroft’s hands are back on his chest, thumbs circling his nipples. 

“God, like that,” Sherlock parts his legs further, looks down at his cock where it’s spasming untouched and then the first wave hits. A long thread of come spills from the tip and Sherlock moans helplessly. Even the feel of it dripping down towards his balls is overwhelming; he clamps down on the sensation ruthlessly, concentrating his attention back on the feeling of Mycroft’s delicious fingers scraping softly at his nipples.

“You’re beautiful like this, little brother,” Mycroft murmurs at his ear. Sherlock can only gasp, squirm.

“How long could you keep this up?” He slides his hands back down to wrap around Sherlock’s cock, “I'd like to milk you dry.”

His hands start up a slow rhythm again, jerking swiftly over the head and sliding down to stroke his balls. Sherlock’s back is arched to the point of pain, and he’s spread his thighs as wide as he can in the cradle of Mycroft’s long legs. He’s gasping for breath, trying not to roll his hips but _oh_ it’s so difficult, and Mycroft is whispering _filthy, filthy_ things in his ear--

“Next time,” he’s saying, voice a silky whisper, “I’ll put my fingers in you.”

And then he stops. 

Sherlock inhales a huge shivery breath, feeling the hot pulse of his cock even as he feels a rush of sensation sweep over him. Another spatter of come hits the wooden floor, some trickling exquisitely over Mycroft’s hands, which haven’t moved away this time, are only just touching him.

“God. _God_ , Mycroft.”

“You’re so sensitive,” Mycroft runs a demonstrative hand over the slit, making him whine, “maybe I’ll make you come just by fingering you.”

“It’s too much,” he sobs out, “oh, I need it. Mycroft.”

“Shh, little brother. I know what you need.” His hands, oh his _hands_ are back on Sherlock’s cock and it’s almost too much. He pulls in a desperate sobbing breath.

Being on edge this long has Sherlock sweating with effort. His hair is sticking to his forehead and he must be ruining Mycroft’s suit. The thought of it sends a little twinge of pleasure through him just as Mycroft’s _beautiful_ hands slide a sweet twist up over his glans and he moans, can’t contain a little shivery thrust upwards. And, oh, Mycroft’s hands have gone from his cock again, he’s thumbing the hollows of Sherlock’s hipbones, stretching up to look over Sherlock’s shoulder and watching as the slit of his cock dilates again, spilling forth another hot string of come. Mycroft makes a desperate noise at this, and seemingly can’t stop himself from pushing his cock into the small of Sherlock’s back, rutting against him jerkily for several seconds as Sherlock spills a little more onto the floor with a loud choking cry.

“That’s it, I can’t, I can’t--” and Mycroft is twisting him around, pushing him gently to the floor and he watches dark eyed as his brother pulls himself out of his trousers, strokes himself in three viciously hard pulls and comes gasping all over Sherlock’s throat, his chin. 

Mycroft’s steady gaze follows the path of his tongue over his lower lip as he licks up a stray droplet. He’s looking at Sherlock as though he wants to eat him for breakfast and doesn’t know where to start; it’s surprisingly delicious.

“Next time,” says Sherlock. It’s as much a question as a statement.

Mycroft tips his head. _If you like._

In answer, Sherlock drags his fingers through the mess of come on his chest and sucks them into his mouth with a groan. Mycroft’s slow smile is _glorious_.


End file.
